for Stephanie Hopkins
We, stirring, stir the waning moon thru watery sky thru walnut leaves and seem we are no more than seeming. You seem, in moonlight, a romance, and I, a philosophy. But privacies escape our lips and laughter passes from us thru the symphony of crickets thru nests of sleeping birds into the dewy field of air whose breaths we more than breathe.
10 October 1979